Alphabet Soup for the Tormented Soul Read online

  When he was 26, Michael told me something that had scared him for about a year.. He said he didn’t want to tell anyone because he was afraid of people thinking he was even crazier than he knew they already thought he was. He said his therapist had done an exercise with the hand that yielded bizarre results.

  He said his therapist put a pencil in his right hand and told him to write his name. Michael did so. The therapist then handed his left hand a pencil and slid that same piece of paper over. He told Michael to write his name.

  He watched in horror as the hand began to form letters which were not ‘Michael’.

  When the hand was done, it put the pencil down and slid the paper over to the therapist.

  Below Michael’s name were neatly crafted letters which read ‘Daniel’.

  The therapist wanted to ask Michael’s hand questions, but Michael refused. Watching the hand write a different name really freaked him out. He said he’d always wondered if maybe that hand wasn’t his at all, or at least not under his control, and that name solidified his fear.

  He said he genuinely believed that the hand wasn’t his anymore.

  All the while he told me this story, his hand struggled against the white-knuckled grip of the other. It clawed at his palm and pulled against his right hand, and seeing that happen while he told me the story of ‘Daniel’ made me begin to believe that perhaps he wasn’t as crazy as he thought. Maybe he was actually on to something.

  That night, on his way home from my apartment, Michael was in a car accident. He hit a cement barrier going 80 mph. To everyone there, it seemed like it was an attempt at suicide. He survived, but had to be helicoptered to the University of Utah hospital for treatment. He was in surgery for 18 hours and came out with only one hand.

  He woke up three days later to a room full of friends and family. I sat down on his bed, having discussed with his family and decided that it would be best coming from me, and I broke the news to him.

  He lifted his right hand, held it up to the light, and began to cry. A broad grin crossed his face and I knew what he was thinking – he was free.

  That was the last time I would ever see my brother smile. The next day when I came to visit him, he told me his alien hand wasn’t gone – he could still feel it. It itched and ached and he could feel things when it touched them. His doctor told him it wasn’t too uncommon for amputee patients to experience this. They called it ‘Phantom Hand Syndrome’.

  He then told me something that I would never recount again until nearly a year after Michael’s death. He told me he didn’t try to kill himself that night – Daniel did. He didn’t drive into the barrier – Daniel hit him in the face and grabbed the wheel.

  Three days later, Michael was found dead in his hospital bed. Originally it was assumed to be a suicide, but the coroner discovered a pattern of bruises on his neck that formed the shape of a left hand.

  A murder investigation was launched, but nobody was ever arrested. The only clue they had to go on, other than the palm-print on Michael’s neck, was a piece of notepad paper from the hospital nightstand with three words scrawled on it: “Daniel is free.”

  E is for Echo

  Tobias Wade

  There’s a lot of people who think death is the end. They think we vanish without a trace, leaving nothing but a rotting corpse that has as much to do with who we were as the molding shirt we were wearing. Those people have never heard the echo of the dead. The last thought someone ever had before they die, that stays rooted to the place almost like a tree planted in their honor.

  ‘It’s getting dark…’ I hear that one a lot. Or ‘I wonder if she’ll miss me’, or ‘Take me home, God’, or things of that nature. I don’t know how it works, but ever since my little brother’s death when I was young, I’ve started hearing the echo of all the people who have died in any given location.

  That’s why I’ll never set foot in a hospital. My mom tried to take me for a sprained wrist once, but I couldn’t get within a hundred feet of the place before thousands of whispered echoes started flooding my mind. I couldn’t take it—I just bolted the second I got out of the car.

  Later a therapist told me that I was suffering PTSD after what happened to my brother, but I never believed it. The echoes are too real. Too close. And I hear them wherever I go.

  You’d be amazed at how many people have died in the most innocuous places. I can hear the whispers in the park where some geezer must have keeled over from a heart-attack or something. Sometimes there are muted screams along the highway or at sharp turns in the road. Even the coffee shop at the end of my street has an echo of: ‘The ambulance should have been here by now…’

  …and then there was Ferryman’s Lake. This was years later when I was a senior in high-school. The whole class had agreed to go to this remote lake for ditch-day at the end of the year. The atmosphere was electric: music blasting in the cars, beers in the trunk, and that desperate, almost maniacal energy of anticipation tinged with heavy goodbyes.

  But I could hear the whispers long before we arrived. I didn’t want to be the weird kid that day. I just wanted to be normal and celebrate with my friends. I tried my best not to listen—I’d gotten pretty good at tuning it out—but this time was different.

  These whispers weren’t nostalgic musings. They weren’t profound or contemplative or sad. There was nothing but absolute, mind-numbing terror, and it kept getting louder as we approached the lake.

  “You feeling okay?”

  Jessica, the kind of girl who makes smart men do stupid things, asked me as we parked.

  “Of course. Just tired of the drive,” I lied. I think she said something else too, but I couldn’t even hear her over the echoed screaming. It was the loudest I’ve ever heard—even louder than the hospital. This close I could finally start to distinguish some words, too.

  ‘Did something touch my leg?’

  ‘What the fuck is that thing?’

  The five other cars had all parked on the graveled shore. My classmates were unloading picnic baskets and stereos. I sat in the car, completely frozen by the tumult of madding echoes.

  ‘I can’t breathe!’

  ‘Get out of the water! Get out get out!’

  “You getting out, or what?”

  Jessica again. I had to stare at her lips to understand what she was saying over the roar in my head. She met my gaze while she casually stripped her t-shirt to reveal a well-employed bikini top. Then the flash of a smile I couldn’t return. I nodded through the numbness, climbing out of the car to gaze at the calm blue water.

  Not a ripple disturbed the tranquil mask. Not a hint of what could be under there. A ferry was tied up along the bank with a cobblestone cottage nearby. A few of the kids were already beginning to investigate.

  “Don’t go…” I couldn’t tell whether a whisper or a shout escaped my lips, but Derek, one of the guys hauling beer out of the trunk, was the only one who seemed to hear.

  “What’s the matter? You’re not afraid of the water, are you?”

  He must have said it loudly for me to be able to hear it so clearly. Jessica was already ankle deep in the water, but she glanced back. Her smile wasn’t for me anymore—it was tinged with the hint of mockery. Everyone would be laughing if they knew what was really going on in my head.

  “What are you idiots doing? Get out, get out!”

  Someone else had saved me from having to say it though. An old man, more beard than face, was standing in the doorway of the stone house.

  One of the kids said something, but I couldn’t hear it over the incessant echoed screams. I forced myself to get closer.

  “Legend has it that something lives in the water near this shore,” the old man replied loudly.

  Everyone was out of the cars now—twenty-six kids in total, all gathering around the stone cottage.

  “Something that has hidden since before mankind first walked the Earth,” the old man was saying. “Something that st
rikes once without warning, and once is all it ever needs. Of course if you prefer, you can fork over five bucks each and I’ll sail you to safety on the other side.”

  “What’s to stop the monster swimming over there?” Jessica asked. She was still smiling—I could tell she wasn’t buying it. No-one was.

  “Too shallow for it,” the old man grunted. “100 bucks for the lot of you, special price. Better safe than sorry.”

  “No way, I want to see the monster!” Derek said.

  He was almost up to his waist now, smacking the still water to send ripples echoing into the deep. Several other kids were starting to follow his lead.

  “We should do it,” I announced loudly, straining to keep my voice calm. “Hey look, I’ll pay for it, okay? The ferry will be fun.”

  There were so many eyes on me while I fished out a brand new 100 that I got as a graduation present. So much for being normal, but at least I could live with myself this way. The old man snapped the money out of my hand before I could even extend my arm.

  “Smart boy, smart boy.” He winked, his eye glittering with sly recognition. “All aboard, don’t be shy. Bags and heavy stuff go in the middle.”

  I avoided eye contact while boarding. For a terrible second I looked behind me and saw I was the only one. The people in the water or those already setting up their stuff on the shore were obviously reluctant. They all looked back and forth at each other, trying to read the invisible will of the group.

  “Last one is going to work at fast food for life,” Jessica shouted, flinging her backpack into the middle of the ferry. She gave me a quizzical smirk and mouthed the words: you owe me. If only she knew how much. Soon her friends were following her, and a moment later the whole senior class was converging on the boarding plank.

  I was hoping the echoes would disperse as we got past the shore. They didn’t. Dozens of unique voices soon became hundreds as we approached the center of the lake. Echoes rebounding off echoes, reverberating and growing, flowing and slithering into my head like persistent intrusive thoughts. Cries for help, screams of pain, or just the animalistic bellow from the minds utterly devoured by fear.

  The ferryman didn't mention the monster again—it was all tourist trivia and blithering about the local plants and animals. He kept looking at me and grinning though, his discolored motley of teeth appearing almost feral at times. The further we went, the more excited he grew, spewing spittle into his beard with every-other explosive word or declaration.

  The continual pounding of sound was making me nauseous. I just closed my eyes and waited for it to be over. I tried not to think about what might be in the water. There were so many voices that I had trouble keeping them straight, but I made a game out of trying to untangle them. Even so, it took several minutes of concentration before this came to the surface:

  I never should have trusted the old man.

  It sounded like a young boy, around 12, no older than my brother was when he died. I glanced at the ferryman who was leaning against the wheel, staring wistfully at us all. No-one was paying him any attention anymore. Not even when his pale tongue flicked greedily over his lips.

  The old man flipped something and the motor gave out. He stretched luxuriously in the sun before making his way to the railing.

  “This is a good place to take a dip if anyone wants to swim,” he called out. “Real shallow here, and if you’re lucky you’ll see some turtles.”

  “You sure it’s safe?” someone asked.

  “I’ll prove it!” Flash goes the feral grin. Several people laughed and gasped as the old man clamored up onto the railing, launching himself into a graceful dive and vanishing with barely a ripple. Other people would be jumping in any second, and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I closed my eyes again, sifting through the mounting pressure of echoes…

  ‘Where’d the ferryman go?’

  ‘He’s not human...’

  ‘Get back to the boat!’

  I opened my eyes again. There was a loud splash and the cheer of laughter which accompanied someone tumbling into the water. I was out of time. I leapt behind the wheel, turning the key and stirring the engine back to life. People were shouting, but I didn’t care. It didn’t matter who was already in the water—every instinct was screaming for me to just save as many as I could.

  The controls were intuitive enough, and I pushed the lever full throttle. We were accelerating quickly—faster than I thought we would. The laughter around me was turning to distress, but I was ready to fight anyone who tried to stop me.

  No-one had time though. We were moving for less than ten seconds before something exploded out of the water behind us. By the time I looked back, it was already gone. All I could see was a massive misshapen shadow underneath the surface, twisting and morphing and growing by the second.

  ‘He’s not human. Then what the fuck is he?!’

  There wasn’t time to find out. Real screams were starting to mix with the echoes now.

  “What are you doing?! Jessica and the old dude are still in the water!”

  Why her, of all people? Was it some kind of cosmic joke that made her jump in first? No, that’s just who she was. She was a brave and enthusiastic leader, and it was going to get her killed.

  I slid the throttle down, and the ferry slowed. Going on without her didn’t even register to me as a choice.. But there was nothing I could do. Her head bobbed under as soon as the black shadow drew near. There was a flash of scaly skin above the water, then a brief glimpse of Jessica’s fingers clawing for the surface. Everyone on the boat was shouting, but soon they were going to just be echoes, too.

  The churning water bubbled red, and I shoved the throttle forward again. The shadow was moving toward the boat, gliding directly under us. Louder than the echoes, louder than the thrashing water or the shouting kids, there was one more voice which joined the haunting chorus of the lake that day:

  ‘Don’t wait for me’

  And I didn’t. I should have done more, said more, while I still had the chance. But I didn’t. And now it’s too late forever, and I’m so, so sorry…

  I think I’m the only one of us who keeps returning to that lake. I don’t go in the water, but if I close my eyes and concentrate, sometimes I can still make out her pale voice peeking shyly from the wall of noise. Don’t wait for me.

  I know she’s right, but I’m still here waiting because, in the end, an echo is all that will remain.

  F is for Formaldehyde

  Kyle Alexander

  The management team of my apartment complex are completely incompetent. I’ve complained for god knows how long about my next door neighbor’s disgusting smoking habits. There’s three of them, and I can’t stand any of those self-righteous bastards. It’s infuriating how they don’t even feel guilty about the matter at hand.

  I live on the third floor of a run-down apartment building in the northern part of the United States. Recently, we’ve had some new neighbors move into the unit 330F. Our building is the exact same on each floor, and the walls and floors are practically paper thin. Although it is cheap, this place is definitely not the most pleasant. Some tenants are completely inconsiderate; they’re noisy, cook terrible-smelling food that stinks up the entire floor’s hallway, vandalize the elevators, and park in the lot like the lines are optional. But nothing compares to the new occupants of apartment 330F.

  I wish I could say I’ve been able to bring some change here, but I haven’t. Management doesn’t seem to care at all about any of our complaints against them. They’re noisy, they’re constantly smoking, they intimidate the other residents... It’s gotten so bad at times I could even smell the disgusting cigarette smoke seeping through my walls. And itt keeps me up at night. They party until the early hours the morning: screaming, shouting, drinking, blasting music, all of the above. Yes, I’ve called the police, but it’s not like they cared much either.

  I’ve attempted to confront them and gotten noth
ing in return other than violent threats and a bit of abdominal bruising. I was worried when I heard Mary – the woman that lived in the unit directly above them – complaining about the horrible odor that would rise into her apartment. I was rushing up the stairs as I heard their voices rise. They were standing at the doorway leading to their floor:

  “Why don’t you mind your own business you ratty old cunt.”

  Those were the only words I heard before they passed through the doorway and stomped toward their apartment. A trail of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Mary stood there, sobbing, backed into the corner. I walked her back to her apartment and reminded her I’d come by at the end of the week to drop her off at bingo. That was the last time I’d hear from her.

  When Friday came I arrived at her door and waited patiently for her to answer – but there was no response. After knocking several times and waiting for over 15 minutes, I assumed I wasn’t needed. That was unusual for her. Mary had always been a very prompt person; she was always grateful for my assistance and would often bring me baked goods out of appreciation. I eventually grew suspicious.

  For days after I’d watch them, wondering if maybe those thugs had something to do with her absence. In between the spying, I’d often return to Mary’s door – still no response. My suspicions evolved into worry.

  The smoking had become intolerable. The hallways, the stairwell, even Mary’s entire floor had a foggy haze that clouded the entire building. I found it difficult to breathe. My window - even in the cold November air - remained open at all times. A fan set to the highest level would rest on the windowsill to help circulate clean air into my apartment. I’d wake up in the morning with a sore throat, my eyes would burn, and my lungs felt like they were struggling to continue. I have no idea how anyone could live like this.

  The notice on Mary’s door threw me into a panic.

  3 DAY NOTICE: PAY OR VACATE

  Mary was late on rent. She was never late. She told me she lived in that building for 15 years and didn’t plan on moving just because of some inconsiderate punks.